Ass Punch
by Laimielle
Summary: Like you've never jizzed your pants before.
1. Love Biscuit

_**The title has no relevance to the story. Here's my pathetic attempt at crack.**_

* * *

"God, Stan!" Kyle bitched, his jewfro jiggling rather comically in the wind. "All you ever do is talk about Wendy! Dude, do you have _any_ idea how fucking inconsiderate it is, doing that?!"

Stan didn't know.

"It's like, I'm your super best friend, you know? Wendy gets _gifts_ from you; she gets your _time_; you buy her _tampons_ when she _needs_ them." Kyle continued to wail, emphasizing random words for no apparent reason. "Well, why not me, huh? Why not, Stan?!"

"I...dude, she's my girlfriend, and, well, you don't need tampons, so—" Stan began to explain slowly, but couldn't, on account of—

"STFU, Stan! Find a new best friend! I'm _leaving!_" the redhead screeched. Kyle continued to yell and nag even though he said he was leaving, and Stan just sort of tuned in and out of the conversation. His thoughts alternated between how Kyle bitched a lot more than Wendy, who admittedly bitched a lot, and Nabisco's Peanut Butter Bites. Because, really, is there a snack that could possibly top Nabisco Peanut Butter Bites? Well...maybe Fig Newtons, but those are fucking classic, and nothing could _ever_ top Fig Newtons...no, never...

"—and she knows _nothing_ about you!"

_Guitar Hero_. Yeah. That tops Fig Newtons.

"...she's just a stupid _slag!_"

Stan was finally jolted out of his thoughts at the word 'slag', realizing that he should probably defend his girlfriend even though she wasn't there to see it.

Kyle was wrong. Stan was _very_ considerate.

"Dude," he began, trying to avoid looking at Kyle's rageface. "Me and Wendy haven't even had sex yet, so she's not a slag. Quit being such a douche bag."

Kyle made an incredulous sound, which was really grating on Stan's nerves. He just wanted to tell Kyle to shut the fuck up. But...

"Slag?" he made a face, chuckling. "That's so British, dude."

"Goddamn it, Stan! You're missing the point! I'm pouring my heart out to you, and you're just..."

Stan started tuning Kyle out again, instinctively picking up on the fact that his friend was only just starting an endless rant about God knows what. Probably something having to do with tampons and slagginess and Cartman and Jews. What_ever_...

The darker haired boy gazed out at the calm waters of Stark Pond and found himself wishing Wendy was here with him rather than Kyle, because she wasn't so much of an annoying fuck. Really, that's why he loved her. Or liked her. Or tolerated her. Sort of.

But...wait.

"Why are we even at Stark's Pond?" Stan thought out loud. There really was no point to being here, right?

It seemed that Kyle had finally stopped talking for a few seconds. He stared at Stan like he was the biggest dumbass in the universe, and Stan stared at Kyle like he was the biggest bitch in the universe.

And both were right.

"Omigawd, Stan." the redhead gasped. "You really don't know?"

"Would I have fucking asked if I fucking did?" Stan seethed, obviously getting very angry by the blatant use of his favorite word.

"I guess not." Kyle admitted. He seemed to be over his earlier bitchfest, which Stan was more than grateful for. "We're at Stark's Pond because we needed to have a heart-to-heart, silly."

Stan really didn't care to be called that.

"And, you know, it's quiet and peaceful here." his friend continued, sounding suspiciously happy. "Romantic..."

Stan was now trying to avoid looking at Kyle's gayface, but it was kind of hard because the other boy was _clearly_ invading his personal space and he couldn't really look anywhere _but_ at Kyle.

"Mm, your eyes are like two big, blue oceany orbs of...ocean." Kyle murmured, trying and failing to sound romantic. "And your hair is like, ebony...um, silk."

Stan scowled, obviously not seduced. Alas, Kyle was not discouraged.

"And your lips are so smooth, like two delicate flower petals." Stan failed to see how his lips had _any_ resemblance to that. "I bet they would look really good wrapped around my—"

"Dude!" Stan wailed, flapping his arms in a Kyle-induced frenzy. "Fucking quit it! No! I'm not—"

But Kyle was already dry-humping his friend, obviously not even close to heeding to Stan's obvious discomfort.

"No homo!" Stan protested loudly, even though he was developing a raging boner. "No homo! No homo!"

But it was too late. Kyle had already jizzed in his pants. He was feeling rather satisfied, but Stan was feeling very violated.

_Maybe this is what depression feels like, _he lamented inwardly. _My life is over—My innocence; virtue...gone—The end of my days._

It was a very beautiful haiku. Hopefully the number of syllables were right.

"D-Don't touch me!" Stan whimpered as Kyle made a grab for his junk. He wasn't ready to make up yet. He had to go home, stare at himself in the mirror for a few minutes before punching the glass and breaking it for no real reason, cut his wrists with the glass shards, and write a suicide note confessing his eternal love for Kyle even though everything that just happened suggested otherwise.

Because waking up in the hospital after a failed suicide attempt with crusted over lacerations is so beautifully dark. And it would be essential for more smut to ensue.

Stan stumbled home in a date rape psychosis-induced daze, ignoring the sound of Kyle calling him post-coital terms of endearment—'honey' and 'love biscuit.' It was all too much. Stan was not a love biscuit. The darkness was closing in on his soul and he was having a crisis of sexual identity. Maybe Kenny could give him a blowjob as consolation.

Yes. That always helps.

* * *

**_I fail. But it got rid of some free time I had (and wasted yours)._**

**_Could I have gotten away with a T rating?_**


	2. Bran Muffin

_A/N: I lied. Apparently, there's more. I don't even know what to say about this one._

* * *

Stan could hardly contain himself.

_Fuck_ Nabisco's Peanut Butter Bites. _Fuck_ Fig Newtons.

He was having frozen waffles for breakfast.

A squeal of unsuppressed delight made its presence known somewhere in the back of Stan's throat, coming out as an awful gurggly sound. It was a valiant and thoughtful effort on his part to keep it muffled enough so that Sharon and Randy weren't bothered by obnoxious ambient noise during their Monday Morning Sex, which apparently helped stave off the suicidal thoughts that shadowed the couple's work week.

Stan smiled to himself, carefully taking the unopened waffle box from its frozen prison. Thoughts of yesterday's troubles with Kyle were completely forgotten as he cradled the object to his chest. It was cold, and it made his nipples kind of pointy, and somehow it was all okay.

Stan was okay.

He cooed to the box, leaning against the counter. Stan felt that his affection was well-received. But that was shattered when his adoring eyes caught site of the yellow Times New Roman graphic on the side.

_Wal-Mart._

His mouth parted very slightly. Hands shaking, he stopped breathing for a moment.

Then,

"_AUGGGGH!"_

"Shut up, Stan! Your mother and I are making love!"

Studiously, he ignored them.

Studiously, he did not drop the offending box of imposter waffles.

Studiously, he stifled another war cry cracked with the onset of puberty.

What were these Wal-Mart brand waffles doing all up in his Eggos?

He could take it no longer. Everyone was fucking lying to him. Fucking Kyle and his fucking premature ejaculation, fucking Sharon and Randy and their creepy middle-aged fucking, and then the fucking _waffles _and their deceitful generic brands. Nothing made sense anymore. The world was crumbling at his feet.

He threw the box to the linoleum in a fit of rage and continued to ignore his father's shouts from the bedroom down the hall to stop whining and that he'd be done very soon to resolve the matter.

His full attention was on the mysterious waffle tumbling from the now broken, creased up box—creased, just like Stan's soul.

The rogue waffle appeared to be travelling alone, for none followed. Stan assumed this was the alpha.

He glared at it challengingly for a few moments. The alpha seemed to be making no move to protect its harem from the wrath of a scorned, hungry teenage boy, and Stan eventually decided to just leave it to thaw on the floor.

He sighed, trying to ignore the persistent hunger pangs in his abdomen. It was time to get ready for school.

"_Ohh, yes, Sharon. Mm, just like that..."_

It was then that Stan Marsh decided today would not be a good day.

* * *

"'You're in the king's main quarters, eyes darting longingly from the unwrinkled coverlet on the impressive bed to the king himself, lounging on the settee in front of you. He stretches out languidly, lips curving into a knowing smirk. His haughty expression melts into something more desirable as he gazes down at you through half-lidded, expectant eyes...

'O, King Charles II! The bulbous head of your throbbing phallus is just exquisite! But might we take an interlude for tea time, perhaps? Oh, my, please refrain from releasing your royal ejaculate of prestige within my mouth just yet, my lord! But before it be 'morrow, your seed shall be planted within no less than every orifice upon my person; I promise it shall be so. 'Tis our night of hedonism, of Eros, and his sorcery of lust and passion! Let us commence, my king!'

"Now, class," Mr. Garrison, who was still inexplicably the boys' teacher, continued. "Why do you think Dickens decided to _exclude_ the foreplay in this piece? Anyone?"

Stan sighed, not in the least giving a shit.

Murphy's Law seemed to definitely be in effect. That was okay. Maybe Stan could just check out mentally for a few days, or however long it took for Kyle to get over his infatuation.

The pink and red streamers stuck everywhere in the halls and classrooms did nothing to quell any of the redhead's super gay crush. There were haphazardly cut-out hearts plastered to lockers everywhere. It was a jolting reminder of tomorrow—of Valentine's Day. Both Kyle and Wendy would probably be expecting something from him. Stan was very, very close to telling them both to fuck off—in his most polite tone, naturally.

"I'm telling you, dude," Kenny was saying to an uninterested Stan. "For Valentine's Day, you should get Wendy a Raffelsia plant. Bitches love Raffelsia plants."

"Kenny, not now—"

"Stanley! Shut your gay little face, will you? I'm trying to prepare you ungrateful little assholes for college!"

Stan wisely kept quiet.

A neatly folded note landed on his desk, and he knew who it was from without even looking at it.

He could feel Kyle's lecherous gaze one desk behind him. He could _feel_ it. And he did not like it.

Garrison began rambling on again. Stan groaned, frustrated beyond belief.

He began unfolding the note, almost unwillingly. He knew Kyle would find a way to get his attention in a much more blunt way if he didn't, so really, there was no choice.

And maybe...maybe there was a small part of him that was really curious. But it was natural, he figured. Just natural curiosity.

At first glace it looked normal, save for Kyle's faggoty curlicue penmanship. But Stan realized he was sadly mistaken as his eyes roamed the slightly wrinkled notebook paper.

_Dear Stan,_

_You make me wet._

_Love,_

_Kyle ;3_

At that very moment, Stan's starved stomach decided to growl. Loudly.

And Kyle growled back.

"_Grrrwwr..." _he purred. "Oh, Stan. You beast, you."

He wanted to die. He really, really did. It wasn't just for dramatics, and it wasn't just a figure of speech. He _really_ wanted to die. And he wanted Kyle to _watch_.

"You were amazing last night. So passionate, so attentive and loving." Kyle whispered, daring to trace the back of Stan's neck with his finger. "Let's hump again sometime soon, yeah?"

He forced himself to be quiet. He knew that if he let himself utter just one word, it would turn into a tirade of shouting and bitching and whining, and he didn't want to cause a scene.

He closed his eyes, and simply shook with suppressed rage.

He heard Kenny giggling quietly to himself.

_Little shit._

"Yes, Stan," the blond whispered through his breathless giggles. "Let's hump."

"_Kenny_," Stan growled, enraged. "Shut the fuck—"

"Stan, what did I tell you about your gay little face?!"

Fucking Mr. Garrison. Stan's hit list just seemed to be getting bigger and bigger.

"To keep it shut?" he tried cautiously, losing his balls like he always seemed to do when challenged by an authority figure.

Or maybe it was just Mr. Garrison.

"Yes! So why don't you do just that?"

"Stan," Kyle was murmuring from behind. "If it's any consolation, _I_ don't think your face is gay."

Stan frowned, looked at the carving on his desk that said, _'Fucking the floor gives my cock rug burn'_ that he did not make, and realized that no, Kyle, it's not any goddamn consolation.

Not at all.

* * *

"_Staaaan..."_

Stan Marsh sighed in his sleep, shifting.

"_Staaaaaaaan..."_

He groaned.

And Kyle heard.

"_Staaaaaan!! Are you dreaming of me?!"_

He shot out of bed at this point, blinking stupidly in the darkness of his room. He saw nothing but the Terrance & Phillip poster illuminated by the moonlight on his wall. Not knowing why he woke up in the first place, and not in the least giving a shit, he fell back in the comfort of his bed.

"_No! Don't go back to sleep, love!"_

Stan then shot up out of bed again, directing his wide-eyed stare to the source of the muffled voice. Lo and behold, it was Kyle, his Super Gay Best Friend. He had his face pressed up against the glass of Stan's window, and even though his features were mostly squished and distorted, Stan could still clearly make out the salacious grin sent his way.

The amount of fear it instilled in the Marsh boy was indescribable.

"_Open your window, my sweet bran muffin!"_

"Fuck off, Kyle!"

"_...What?"_

"I said _fuck off_." Stan whisper-yelled, enunciating each word as clearly as he could.

"_You don't mean that. Just open the window for me, baby."_

"No! Go a—"

"_Please? I have something important to tell you."_

Kyle _sounded_ sincere, but...

"_It'll only take a second. I promise."_

"I don't—"

"_Please. Just a few moments. Give me that much."_

Goddamn it. Kyle really knew how to prey on Stan's inherent kindness.

The dark-haired boy grumbled to himself and shoved his blankets away in irritation. He pretended not to notice Kyle's gaze travelling up and down his half-naked form, as he generally only wore boxers to bed.

What the fuck did he do to deserve this?

Kyle looked positively giddy as his friend opened the window, just a few inches to be safe.

"I couldn't get to sleep. I was laying in bed, and all I could do was think of you and the moment of passion we fell into at Stark's Pond—"

"It didn't happen that way, asshole."

"—and I just had to come by to see you."

"Okay. You did, so...goodb—"

"It's alright to be afraid, Stan."

_What?_

"Our love is as controversial as Obama's healthcare reforms. But it's okay. We will persevere through the obstacles in our way if we have each other."

Stan began mentally debating on whether or not it would be morally acceptable to shut his window down on Kyle's wiggling fingers. Decided the piercing scream that would inevitably wake his family wasn't worth it.

He was beginning to feel desperate. He was grasping at things in his mind, even past advice from Randy on such subjects.

"_There comes a time in every boy's life when he begins noticing some...changes—a stirring in his loins, if you will. And then the teacher calls him up to the board—an awful scenario, I know, but it _will_ happen to you someday."_

No, no, that wasn't it...

"_You see, son, the clitoris is just a mini version of the penis."_

No, that wouldn't help, either.

"_Never shave your ass hair. Do you have any idea how itchy it gets when it grows back?"_

Fucking Randy and his good-for-nothing advice. _Shit_.

"_What the hell are the frozen waffles doing on the kitchen floor? Stan, I don't know if you've noticed, but that's not where we eat."_

"Hey...hey, Stan," Kyle was whispering. "Let me in."

"No."

"Please? We don't have to make love. We can just cuddle."

Stan glared at the blurred patch on his window from Kyle's breath, as it was all he could see of the redhead at the moment.

"I mean, it's Valentine's Day," he whined. "And I brought you a Raffelsia plant."

"I don't want your Raffelsia plant! Shove it up your fucking ass!" he snapped heatedly. He was beyond caring about Kyle's feelings at this point.

"Well," Kyle chuckled. "if that's what you want, you kinky bastard—"

"No!" Shoo, bad mental images! "I don't want that! I don't want _you!_ Please fuck off. Just...please..."

He could not deal anymore. He just couldn't. This desperation, this urgency to be free...it was so pressing. He had to put an end to this.

"Well, fine!" Kyle growled, his tone suddenly darkening. "I'll just go get _Kenny_ to suck me off!"

Oh, thank god...

"You didn't have to be such a fucking asshole about it, Stan!"

A few moments...a few mercifully silent moments...and then he was quite sure the enraged little redhead really had fucked off.

Stan grinned to himself. Maybe he wouldn't have to come to terms with his obvious homosexuality, after all.


End file.
